


kiss me like they do on the emergency broadcast system

by Lirazel



Category: Infinite (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's too late: they've both already fallen, and now it's just a matter of facing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me like they do on the emergency broadcast system

**Author's Note:**

> I have been obsessed with [this fic](http://tagavaka.livejournal.com/9296.html) for years, and while I LOVE the way it ends, I guess the Wooyeol shipper in me wanted more in this verse, so here is a(n authorized, since the writer seems to have left fandom and I can't get in touch) sequel to someone else's fic.

Back in his own clothes, and they feel restrictive—unfamiliar, almost irritating, like the tags he yanks out of the collars of his shirts, only all over, rubbing away at him till he wants to come out of his skin. Not that taking the clothes off again would help anything; if anything, it would only make him feel worse: exposed is worse than restricted. But he’s still too aware of his body, of its _thereness_ under his clothes, insistent in its reality, and no matter what he imagines putting on—sliding into his latest stage clothes or his most comfortable worn pajamas—he is all too much aware of himself, of the plane of his chest, of the narrowness of hips and the largeness of his hands and feet and the width of his shoulders. Of his dick. 

It’s not hard anymore (and he isn’t sure which idea he hates more: himself hard after making out with Woohyun in a bathroom after tilting his head back and rolling his hips and practically begging for Woohyun to touch him or now shriveled up in misery that skirts the edges of humiliation), but he’s still aware of it in a way he usually isn’t when he isn’t turned on, aware of it tucked into his briefs, swaddled by his jeans. It’s not that he wants it not to be there, and he definitely doesn’t want something else to be there instead, but he can’t stop thinking about it, about how it had felt under the slinkiness of the dress he’d just shed. About how close Woohyun’s fingers had been to it as they slid up his thighs. About how he could still feel the little calluses on Woohyun’s fingers even after Woohyun pulled back and disappeared. About how he’d slipped his hand into his underwear and about Woohyun saying his name on the other side of the stall door and about how Woohyun had known just exactly what he was doing and about how Woohyun’s hand—broader, blunter, rougher than Sungyeol’s—had closed tight around the handle of Sungyeol’s backpack. 

He doesn’t look at Woohyun as Infinite and its entourage stream out of the building into the sticky summer heat and the sound of fans shouting their names. He stops himself from drooping his shoulders but keeps his eyes on the reflection of the orange streetlight on the top of their van, trying to look merely tired and not lost. The fans are used to tired. Sungyeol is used to tired.

But then over the general clamor, a girl’s voice cuts over to him: _Yeolna-unnie!_ and his flinch is so violent he almost trips. He’s sucking in air in painful gasps and hasn’t even realized he’s come to a stop, but then there’s the brush of a hand on the small of his back, and even through the cotton of his t-shirt, he knows it’s Woohyun, and he jerks forward again, hoping it looks like he’s just been reminded to start walking and not that he’s trying to get away from Woohyun’s _hand_. His own hands close around the dangling straps from his backpack, his nails—a little longer than he usually keeps them and if he looked at them, he’d see the strip of white French tips across each one, and _fuck_ , he wishes he could scrub that polish off right now or _something_ —digging into his damp palms. The fans are still screaming and in his hurry Sungyeol bumps right into Sunggyu’s back, but the leader doesn’t even spare a backwards glance at him, just climbs into the van as soon as Sungjong’s inside. Sungyeol feels warmth against his back—almost touching, but not quite—and again knows exactly who it belongs to, and so he throws himself into the van, climbing to the back seat and then, with the nearness of Woohyun behind him scratching over his neck and shoulders, over Sungjong’s legs.

“Hyung, I’m sitting by the window, are you—” 

But Sungyeol ignores him, using his own legs to push at Sungjong’s, and Sungjong lets out an annoyed sigh and slides over so that Sungyeol can cram himself in between Sungjong’s bony elbow and the window. 

“Why can’t you just sit where there’s an open seat?” Sungjong demands, but he stops abruptly when the seat shifts and Woohyun sits down on his other side. Sungyeol is studiously pulling out his seatbelt, buckling in, but he knows that Sungjong is looking at Woohyun, that Sungjong is reading the tension in Sungyeol’s shoulders. He doesn’t say anything after that, not the whole way home, and Sungyeol doesn’t either. And neither does Woohyun, but Sungyeol is no less aware of him than when he was touching him earlier; Sungjong might as well not be between them at all. Sungyeol could swear he hears Woohyun’s breathing, even if Jungryoul has the stereo on quietly and Dongwoo is snoring and Myungsoo and Hoya are talking and there’s no way in hell Sungyeol can hear anyone’s breathing, not even his own. Except he does.

He tries to focus on Sungjong next to him, Sungjong who’s as much his little brother as Daeyeol is, but suddenly the memory of Sungjong’s first solo stage flashes through his mind, of Sungjong in a dress without any padding, a dress that clung to him and revealed his natural S-line, his hair pushed back from his face with no wig in sight, the makeup that was meant to enhance instead of transform. Sungjong had strutted and smoldered and there was nothing funny about that performance, nothing childish and cute like when he did Orange Caramel dances or sang along too loud to “Bubble Pop.” That performance had been serious, sharp, and Sungyeol thinks it’s probably the most memorable thing any member of Infinite has ever done and how? How had Sungjong been so comfortable? He wasn’t playing dress up, he wasn’t wanting to make people laugh. He wanted to make them grovel and they did, and he wasn’t a-guy-dressed-up-as-a-girl, he was Lee Sungjong who just so happened to be wearing a dress and swinging his body around like Park Jiyoon.

Sungyeol’s performance today had been different. The audience had roared and laughed and that was the point, and Sungyeol should have been able to treat it as lightly as animal impressions or ragging on Sunggyu. But there were Woohyun’s eyes on him, and afterwards there was the silence of the bathroom and any sense of mirth—which had been brittle to begin with—had dissipated entirely. There was no more armor of it’s-all-a-joke; Sungyeol-in-a-dress, thighs bare and hair curling softly around his face, had morphed into something as serious as Sungjong’s “Adult Ceremony,” except that Sungjong had been sharp and fierce, like worship was his due, whereas Sungyeol felt small and exposed and anything but confident. Sungjong had performed like he knew exactly who he was and wanted everyone to see it. Sungyeol lingered in the bathroom like he was looking for some part of himself he wasn’t sure existed and had seen a stranger superimposed over his own too-familiar face in the mirror.

And then Woohyun had been there and—

No. Sungyeol presses his thighs together and smooths his thoughts over, trying to turn his whole world into nothing but the feeling of well-worn jeans against his skin (but it doesn’t help because thirty minutes ago, Woohyun’s well-worn jeans had been pressed against the bare skin of Sungyeol’s thighs and then he was gone and Sungyeol’s skin was cold).

When they reach home, Myungsoo does his Myungsoo thing, and falls into place right beside Sungyeol as soon as they’re all out of the van, the side of his arm pressed up against Sungyeol’s. He’s talking about something, probably the show they just finished filming or their schedule tomorrow or his new camera lens, but Sungyeol can’t focus on anything but the weight of his own dick in his pants and the taste of lipstick on his lips. Which is ridiculous, because he’d scrubbed his face almost raw with the wipes one of the noonas gave him—there isn’t any makeup on his face anymore, except maybe some clumps of mascara clinging to his lashes. But his lips still taste like lipstick.

He doesn’t look at Woohyun as they troop inside, but he’s as aware of him as he is of his dick, and the thought makes him want to scream or throw up or something, but then they’re in the elevator and Myungsoo sighs and rests his head on Sungyeol’s shoulder, his hair brushing against Sungyeol’s neck and cheek, and Sungyeol tries to focus instead on his nearness and the smell of his hairspray. It almost works.

Finally back in his room, door closed firmly behind him, he strips off his t-shirt and sheds his jeans, but he’d been right: exposed is worse than restricted, and he sorts through the piles on his floor frantically, looking for something— _something_ —to put on that won’t make him feel like he’s in a costume or a straightjacket or—

The door clicks open and Sungyeol freezes, a sweatshirt hanging from one hand, his shoulders shooting up to his ears and he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. His heart beats heavy and thick in his mouth.

 _Get out get out get out_ , something is hissing inside of him, but his mouth won’t work, and the door clicks shut again and Sungyeol is frozen in place and the air conditioner has never hummed so loud before. But still, Sungyeol can hear Woohyun’s breathing.

He can hear, too, the small slick sound when Woohyun opens his mouth, and he presses his eyes shut; he knows the smudged remnants of lipstick aren’t still clinging to Woohyun’s lips where his own left them—Woohyun is far too conscientious to have walked out in front of the fans with Sungyeol’s lipstick still smeared on his lips—but he can’t help but imagine it still there, the streaks of red on Woohyun’s full lips, the taste of it still on Woohyun’s tongue and—

“Sungyeol—”

Sungyeol is standing there in a pair of briefs and nothing else, and he wasn’t cold a moment before, but now he feels like he walked into a freezer, the temperature almost a tangible plastic against his skin.

“Get out,” he manages to rasp out, and thank fucking God that it sounds harsh instead of pleading. 

But it’s Woohyun. “Sungyeol—”

Sungyeol drops the sweatshirt and spins around so fast that Woohyun blinks, but Sungyeol is trembling now with anger or shame or pain or something flaring hot inside him. But he’s not so distracted by what he’s feeling that he doesn’t see Woohyun’s eyes flicker over his body, and it makes him want to rip all his skin off or drop down and curl up into a ball again, but he doesn’t, he can’t: Woohyun has to see who he really is, a flat chest, muscled shoulders, the outline his dick in his briefs. Woohyun has to see, even if it makes his stomach lurch with disgust that he was just touching this body—this _man_ ’s body—Woohyun has to _see_.

“It was always just me under there.” Sungyeol’s voice cracks as he speaks, but he doesn’t fucking care. “There were never any tits and my dick was always there and you—” He chokes, forces his heart back down his throat. “A bad idea. So get out.”

Woohyun’s eyes have gone very big, so round that he doesn’t hardly look like himself, and he’s breathing hard through his mouth, his hands—his _hands_ that were sliding up Sungyeol’s thighs less than an hour ago—knotted by his sides. “Sungyeol, that’s not—”

“You won’t leave? Fine. Take a good long look.” The thought of Woohyun looking at him, at his bare skin, at the vulnerable lines of his body now that clothes aren’t veiling them, sends a wave of self-loathing disgust through him, but Woohyun has to _see_. This can’t keep happening—Sungyeol has to take care of it now. Now, because there might be more dresses and more stupid fucking variety shows and if they tell him to do it, Sungyeol can’t say no, not when he still has to work so hard for any little drama role he gets, not when he needs the approval of everyone in the industry so that maybe, just maybe he’ll catch a break. There might be more dresses, and the thought makes him want to die, but it’s undeniable and this can’t keep happening. It can’t. “Remember this next time. Remember that that girl doesn’t _exist_.”

Maybe he’s talking to himself, maybe he’s trying to remind himself that Woohyun hard against his leg, Woohyun’s mouth desperate against his wasn’t about him at all, but about some girl Woohyun could pretend he is. It had seemed like enough, when they were in that bathroom stall—not what he would have asked for, but enough in that moment. He’s always been greedy, and that greed has never been satisfied, so he’s been teaching himself over the years that what he can get has to be enough, and when Woohyun’s hand was sliding so slowly up the bare skin of his thighs under the hem of the dress, he had almost believed it.

But: _maybe this isn’t such a good idea_ , and Sungyeol is not a girl, and Woohyun has to remember that, he _has_ to, because Sungyeol can’t forget it himself, not again.

“That’s not—I wasn’t—” Woohyun’s voice sounds scraped raw and his eyes are fever-bright with something that Sungyeol can’t name, doesn’t even want to name, and Sungyeol’s skin is cold but he’s molten on the inside.

Woohyun’s eyes are too much for him, so he pivots back around, grabs up the sweatshirt again, yanks it over his head. But when his head emerges and he shoves his mussed hair out of his eyes (he would cut it off now, cut it as short as Destiny, if he had a pair of scissors maybe Sungjong has scissors Sungjong is the kind to always be prepared when Woohyun leaves he can borrow some and—), he hears Woohyun’s breathing again, close behind him this time, and then the warmth and solidity of Woohyun’s chest pressed against his back, and then Woohyun’s thumb edges up underneath the bottom of the sweatshirt and skims over Sungyeol’s hipbone and Sungyeol’s stomach lurches with heat and—

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he whispers, short and sharp, and now he’s shaking so hard he’s surprised his bones aren’t making rattling noises. He’s about to fling Woohyun’s hand away, turn around and shove him out of the room, but suddenly Woohyun’s arms band around his waist in a iron-hard backhug, Woohyun’s breath rasping in his ear, and Sungyeol would wrench himself free, but he’s shaking and breathing too hard and—

“I don’t forget.” Woohyun’s voice is still so raw, but it’s so _close_ to Sungyeol’s ear now and Sungyeol can feel his pulse throbbing in his palms where his hands hang stiff at his sides. “I know it’s you. I always know it’s you.” Sungyeol’s control would snap then, but then he feels Woohyun’s nose nuzzle into the hair hanging over the back of his neck, feels the damp of Woohyun’s breath, and all he can do is stand there with Woohyun’s arms banded around him, his trembling frozen to something barely perceptible. “When you—when you look like that, it’s like it’s okay for me to—it’s like I don’t have to feel—like no one would blame me—”

“Because you can forget I’m a guy.” The words snap out of his mouth like rubber bands, but Woohyun’s arms tighten.

“ _No_. Because—”

Sungyeol goes to pull free just as Woohyun grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around, and then Woohyun’s kissing him again, and it’s just like in the bathroom earlier except that every hint of the lipstick is now gone, leaving nothing but the taste of Woohyun behind, and Sungyeol’s chest feels like it’s going to crack, so he jerks away.

“You can’t just—”

“Shitshitshit, _Sungyeol_ —” And Woohyun flings himself back at him, arms clinging desperately, and he suddenly seems as fragile and small as Sungyeol feels, and the words he’s saying burn acid-hot on Sungyeol’s skin. “Don’t you—this is why I said it wasn’t a good idea—anyone could walk in, and you weren’t _you_ —no! No, you were! But you wouldn’t believe that _I_ knew that and—okay. Okay, I was being a coward, it was the easy way, I could have written it off on the dress, and _that’s_ why it was a bad idea, because it’s not about the dress, Sungyeol, it’s never been about the dress or the makeup or the—but I felt like I could show it then, like it meant I wasn’t a freak, just confused and—”

“Confused?”

Woohyun shakes his head furiously, his hair moving around it in a way that would be comical in any other situation. “I’m _not_ confused, I’m not, but everyone would think—if they knew, the fans or my parents or the company or—”

Sungyeol pushes down on Woohyun’s arms as hard as he can till Woohyun’s hands break apart and the embrace falls away. “I’m not your dirty secret to be ashamed of.” Why the _fuck_ is Woohyun doing this to him?

“No, no, you’re not, but you’re—” Woohyun is so flushed, but not in embarrassment, and his eyes are wild for a moment and then they snap into something hard and he stares at Sungyeol dead on like he’s poured all his willpower into saying the next words he says. “I don’t just want you when I can pretend you’re a girl.”

Sungyeol doesn’t even know what kind of sound he makes in his own throat—a protest or a scoff or something else altogether. Now he can feel his pulse throbbing in his temples as well, in the backs of his knees and the balls of his feet. Woohyun suddenly looks very, very young.

“And even when I could pretend you’re a girl, I don’t. I don’t pretend that. I swear, Sungyeol. I don’t.”

Sungyeol’s throat is too dry to swallow, but he manages to get some words out. “I get you hot when I’m a girl.”

Woohyun’s head jerks once in a tense denial. “You’re never a girl. And you always get me hot. I just—I only let myself feel it when you have on a dress.”

And then Woohyun is rushing forward, pushing him down onto the bed, and Sungyeol lets him, Sungyeol lets him kiss him again, drag trembling lips across his cheek, pull back far enough to shove up the bottom of his sweatshirt.

“Fuckfuckfuck, Sungyeol, I can’t, I—”

Sungyeol doesn’t even feel Woohyun wrestle the sweatshirt off of him because his hands and feet have gone numb, frostbite ache cold, and Woohyun’s hands are everywhere, on his arms and sliding up his torso, and one grasping his thigh, and Sungyeol’s own fingers are in Woohyun’s hair, scrunching and tugging harder than he should, but he can’t be gentle, he _can’t_.

Then Woohyun’s lips and tongue and teeth are on the beauty marks just below Sungyeol’s collarbone, are coaxing harsh-edged pants for breath out of Sungyeol’s chest, are sliding further down, and then Woohyun’s scrunched down at the bottom of the bed and sucking red into Sungyeol’s thigh, and his breath is so warm on Sungyeol’s cool skin, and the damp of Woohyun’s breath brushes against the fabric of Sungyeol’s briefs and it’s like he’s breathing fire that shoots through Sungyeol, burning everything away till Sungyeol is nothing but fire.

Sungyeol shoots upward and doesn’t even realize he’s yanked Woohyun up by his hair until he sees Woohyun staring at him. Woohyun’s lips are more swollen than ever, the sight tightening Sungyeol’s gut, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide with something endless under the fall of his mussed hair and he’s staring at Sungyeol like he wants to pull Sungyeol right inside of him. And in the midst of the fire burning through his veins, Sungyeol feels something stir: that small, greedy part of him that he’s never been able to annihilate entirely, the part that lurks in the darkest depths of him and craves too much: craves love and adoration and devotion and worship and all the things that Sungyeol tries to stop himself from wanting. It’s like the look in Woohyun’s eyes has found that part of him, ripped away all the clutter around it and laid it bare in the sunlight, wrinkled and pathetic and undeniable. Sungyeol wants to smash it to smithereens, obliterate it completely, pretend it was never there, but he can’t move.

“Sungyeol,” Woohyun says, voice small but with something so big behind it, and then Sungyeol hurls himself forward and into Woohyun.

They make out like the teenagers they aren’t anymore, desperate and barely controlled, half-tangled in the sheets of Sungyeol’s bed, and Sungyeol is shivering with heat. Woohyun’s hands are sliding all over his skin, but when Sungyeol slides his hands down from Woohyun’s hair, he feels cotton and denim and of course that’s how it is: Sungyeol wearing almost nothing, Woohyun still fully clothed. Sungyeol has inches on Woohyun, but right now he feels like the small one, and when Woohyun’s thumb brushes against his nipple his gasp is more like a sob.

Then Woohyun shifts, and Sungyeol’s bare thigh is between his just like it was in the bathroom, and Sungyeol rolls his hips, the cotton of his briefs dragging over the denim of Woohyun’s jeans, and Woohyun lets out a strangled noise and then he’s rutting against Sungyeol’s leg, helpless, like the friction isn’t enough for his dick, and one of his hands is wrapped around Sungyeol’s other leg and his thumb is rubbing tiny circles into the sensitive skin, and Sungyeol feels like the top of his head and the bottoms of his feet have melted away.

It doesn’t last long, both of them holding onto each other too hard, Sungyeol’s fingernails biting into Woohyun’s biceps, their motions frantic and not at all in rhythm, and of course Sungyeol comes in his underwear, where did he think this was going, but he didn’t expect to come so hard it’s almost painful, so hard it leaves him feeling wrung-out and and his fingers trembling, and his mind is completely blank when Woohyun groans into his ear and presses harder against him.

The stillness, afterwards, is hard to bear, perhaps all the more so because both of them are gasping for breath. Sungyeol becomes aware that Woohyun’s hand is still gripping his thigh, just inches away from Sungyeol’s damp underwear and—

Woohyun’s rear hits the floor hard. 

“Get out!” Sungyeol’s voice is somewhere between a hiss and a growl, and Woohyun’s eyes are round and wide and completely confused.

“Sungyeol—”

“Get. Out.”

Woohyun pushes himself up off the floor and he hasn’t even fully climbed to his feet before Sungyeol knows he’s about to reach out to him and the knowledged is so intolerable that— “I swear to God, Woohyun, if you don’t get out—”

Woohyun’s face could break a heart, but not Sungyeol’s. It’s too late for that.

He goes.

Sungyeol collapses back onto the stale sheets and realizes his fingers are still shaking. He should get up and change his underwear, clean himself off, but he can’t move. 

 

 

Sungyeol doesn’t look at Woohyun for four days, but he can feel Woohyun’s gaze on him, tangible as a touch, whenever they’re in the same room. Sungyeol goes to the gym whenever he knows Woohyun isn’t there, and the ache in his muscles gives him something to concentrate on.

One night, half-drunk on soju (no surprise: he hasn’t been eating much the last few days), he fumblingly tries to voice the thoughts he’d had in the van to Sungjong. Sungjong is, as usual, less than impressed, maybe with Sungyeol’s breath, but he doesn’t shove Sungyeol out of the room, which is something.

“I’m still me when I wear a dress, hyung. I’m just me in a dress.”

This is so clearly true that Sungyeol can’t argue with it. “But the person people see—”

“I _make_ them see me.”

“And what if they still don’t?”

“Then I don’t care what they think. They don’t know me anyway.”

Sungjong always makes it sound easy, even if Sungyeol is pretty sure all his wisdom is hard-won. But there’s no comfort in the words: Woohyun _does_ know him, and that’s the worst thing about this whole situation. 

“Hyung, you really need to stop agreeing to do drag if you’re going to have some sort of existential crisis after every performance.”

Sungyeol ends up passing out (more from exhaustion than alcohol) on Sungjong’s bed and Sungjong, who really does take care of his hyungs better than they take care of him, lets him sleep. He wakes to insistent sunlight the next morning and stumbles not-quite-hungover but definitely dry-mouthed into the bathroom and forgets to lock the door.

His skin is flushed pink when he steps out of the shower and slings a towel around his waist; the sound of the water running doesn’t clear his mind the way it had in the bathroom a few nights ago, but the mint of his toothpaste tugs him fully awake. The mirror is so fogged that he can’t see who it is when the door opens, but if it’s Sungjong, he’ll go back to his room and wait his turn and if it’s Myungsoo, he’ll trip in still mostly asleep and fall face-first into the shower without noticing Sungyeol at all. Sungyeol leans down to spit and wash his mouth, but after the sound of the door closing again there’s the click of the lock and Sungyeol almost bashes his forehead against the faucet as he jerks upright and slams the water off.

Woohyun looks tired and very young with his hair hanging over his forehead that way and his t-shirt a little too big in the shoulders, and Sungyeol should demand he get out, but he doesn’t. He just stares back at the tired droop of Woohyun’s eyes and doesn’t let his own shoulders hunch over the way they want to. 

After a very long time, Woohyun swallows, and his voice when he speaks is husky the way it always is first thing in the morning; it’s so familiar and it shouldn’t make Sungyeol’s stomach turn over. “I fucked it all up. I’m really sorry. I did it wrong and I—” He shakes his head, whether to clear it or to deny his own words, Sungyeol can’t tell, and he’s almost recovered his own ability to speak again when Woohyun reaches down and pulls his shirt off. Sungyeol blinks at chocolate abs and blinks again when Woohyun shoves his sweat pants down and steps out of them, naked. He doesn’t move as Woohyun walks towards him, but he might as well not have even brushed his teeth for how cottony his mouth feels again.

Woohyun just keeps walking until he’s far too close, until Sungyeol can’t even focus on his eyes and his breath is fanning against Sungyeol’s mouth, and when Woohyun kisses him, Sungyeol doesn’t move. The kiss melts like ice on his lips and he’s breathing the same air as Woohyun when Woohyun reaches down and loosens his towel.

It puddles around Sungyeol’s feet and he jerks back, but before he can even begin to consider what to say, Woohyun’s hand closes around his dick. Sungyeol gasps as his eyes fly open wider, and Woohyun holds his gaze for a beat before slowly, deliberately, looking down. 

Sungyeol looks down, too, just in time to see Woohyun press himself closer and then Sungyeol’s eyes roll back in his head, and he isn’t sure whether it’s at the sight or the feeling of Woohyun’s dick against his, of Woohyun’s hand wrapping around both of them. Woohyun drops his head forward, till his forehead is pressed against Sungyeol’s shoulder, and he’s still looking down between them, watching his hand coax both of them the hardness at once and that shouldn’t make Sungyeol’s blood head south, but Woohyun’s obviously affected too, and Sungyeol doesn’t know what to feel. He holds onto the counter of the sink behind him so hard that his hands ache, but he can’t loosen his grip.

The room is still humid from his shower, and Sungyeol is sweating hard now, his skin slick against Woohyun’s. Woohyun’s exhalations against his collarbone turn Sungyeol inside out, and Sungyeol’s breathing is closer to sobbing as Woohyun’s hand speeds up. The rhythm’s not quite right, but it doesn’t matter when Woohyun is still staring down between them and Woohyun’s skin is pressed up against his own. 

Sungyeol’s hips are moving in frantic circles and his breathing is still more sobbing than anything else, and he can’t help it: he drops his head down and bites down on Woohyun’s collarbone. Woohyun’s hips jerk and so does his breath and his voice is still husky like the words were startled out of him when he gasps, “Fuck—Sungyeol—I fucking love you.”

And of course that’s what shoves Sungyeol over the edge. Everything goes white and he would probably have crashed to his knees if Woohyun’s arm didn’t shoot out and grab him around the waist. Sungyeol feels like his orgasm is being yanked from every cell of his body, and the helpless cry he lets out has Woohyun’s hips stuttering.

They gasp and slump against each other, and Sungyeol’s mind can’t hold onto anything but the smell of Woohyun and sweat and spunk. 

And then Woohyun rasps, “Never wear a dress again if you don’t want to.”

It takes Sungyeol a moment to process those words. “It gets you hot when I wear one.”

“Everything you do gets me hot.”

Sungyeol is terrified and elated all at once, because this is big, so much bigger than he knows how to comprehend. But Woohyun is still cradling their soft dicks together and he presses a kiss to Sungyeol’s chest, right over his heart, and Sungyeol should try to get a hold of this somehow, sort out what he feels and what Woohyun is saying and what everything that’s happened between them over the past few days actually means, make it make sense and figure out a way to process it and decide where it’s going and what he actually wants. 

But it’s already too late for that.


End file.
